


Thorin and Thera

by Jollytr



Category: Richard Armitage - Fandom, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), thorin oakenshield - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Love, Peace, description of massacre, unintentional family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jollytr/pseuds/Jollytr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years between The Battle of Azanulbizar and settling in the Blue Mountains Thorin is charged with, and blessed by, heavy burdens.  On a trip to a Dwarven camp, Thorin happens upon the horrific aftermath of an Orc attack on a human family.  Only one of the humans survived, a baby who clings to Thorin for dear life.  Thorin does not embrace his new role as father-protector of the child. </p><p>This is the story of a great Durin prince humbled by a wee human girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorin and Thera

**Author's Note:**

> This world of Middle Earth belongs to Professor Tolkien; the setting, some characters herein, their ultimate fates, it's all his but for Thera, the Dwarf camp and the plot. No disrespect intended to the Professor or his work.

The Dwarves were a long lived race with innate pride and a tragic history.   Since their waking near Gundabad, Durin’s folk were cast offs, wandering Middle Earth until, in the First Age, Durin the Deathless called them to establish  Khazad-dûm, the most splendid and majestic wonder of Middle Earth.   While Khazad-dûm lasted all four ages of Middle Earth, the peace and security of their community did not.   The Dwarves were forced to flee in order to escape Balrog of Moria, leaving all glory and riches behind.  They wandered Middle Earth again until Thráin the Old, with those who would follow, established them in the Lonely Mountain - Erebor.  They began to carve out a good home and a peaceful life but it lasted for only two centuries – not long in the lives of Dwarves.  

Erebor was abandoned in the Third Age (TA) 2210 for Ered Mithrin in The Grey Mountains.  Some 300 years later Ered Mithrin was sacked by a Cold Drake and the Dwarves fled, some establishing a humble but stable kingdom in the Iron Hills. By TA 2590 Dain of the Iron Hill’s brother Thrór led a group of Dwarves back to Erebor where they prospered until the desolation of Smaug the Fire Drake in TA 2770.   The Royal Family led their surviving people away from Erebor with some of their small number choosing to settle in the Iron Hills with distant kin.  Once again, Durin’s folk lived in exile, turned away by old Elvish allies and forced to beg for scraps and menial work in the towns of Men.

Determined to restore the pride of his people, King Thrór led the Battle of Azanulbizar to reclaim Khazad-dûm from Orc scum.   Thrór and his Grandson, Frerin, perished in the battle and while the Dwarves were the battle's winners, there was no victory celebration because Dwarven losses were beyond the count of grief.   They had not the people needed to successfully restore, inhabit or defend Khazad-dûm and so they could not reclaim it as a home for the Line of Durin.  At Azanulbizar the Dwarvish prince emerged as one they could follow, one they could call king, in line to be King Under the Mountain after his father, Thrain.  The young royal gained his name, Thorin Oakenshield, and the respect of his people as the rightful, respected Heir of Durin.

Without Erebor or Khazad-dûm the Dwarves had no glorious mountain home in which to re-establish a majestic kingdom.   For the third time in their history, some went to the Iron Hills while others travelled Middle Earth from Dunland to the Blue Mountains, refugees at the mercy of races who held them in low regard.   With Thrór dead and Thrain missing, the burden of guiding Durin’s folk back to Erebor fell to Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin was a Dwarf who bore the history of his people like a heavy mantle about his shoulders.  He could command an army and, at the same time, had the heart to grieve for the loss of his people and hope for their restoration.   He was a fearless fighter, a brave warrior-prince who understood war, its glory and its price.   But he was also a dying ember, the last hope of his people and without him, Durin’s folk would never reclaim their home or their former dignity.

Thorin led the Dwarves from the devastation at Khazad-dûm across the wilds, helplessly watching Dwarves, Dwarrow-dams and Dwarflings fall to starvation, exposure and disease.  The plight of the Dwarves of Erebor weighed heavier on him than any royal decree ever could and it was his own personal, humiliating shame and devastation to fail his people in their basic needs of safety, shelter and sustenance.   In their exile from the Lonely Mountain, there were those who helped and those who did not, the latter of which Thorin never forgave and he never forgot.   He took work where he could find it – usually in blacksmith shops of Men.   The work was crude and insulting to the skill and meticulous attention to detail Dwarves valued in their craftsmanship.   But it was money, and the only money to be found.  He gave all but a pittance of his wages to those who were not so fortunate as to find menial labour.  He would not hold back anything for himself but the barest necessities – he could not do otherwise while the exiles of Erebor did without.

Thorin regularly used his meager wages to buy food and supplies, travelling many hours to deliver them to local Dwarven clusters. He was always on alert when he travelled from village to village and camp to camp for the hateful Orcs who caused such grief and losses at Azanulbizar plagued the roads and hills of Middle Earth.   Such trips were dangerous to make alone but he would not risk the lives of his kin on his duty errands.  Many of his people, and many of the race of Men, had fallen to their cowardly attacks and undoubtedly many more would as well until a safe stronghold could be found or Orcs were driven back to the depths whence they came. 

It was on such a mission that he came upon a small band of Orcs in the midst of massacring a human family.   The screams of the humans and the vile black sounds of the Orcs unleashed years of barely contained rage.   Their blood lust poisoned the air and Thorin reeled at the memory of the horror at Azanulbizar when they threw his Grandfather’s decapitated head at his feet.   Battle axes at the ready, he charged the Orcs, slaying most of their pack before they registered that he was there.  The last three provided a worthy fight but were ultimately no match for Thorin Oakenshield;  he dispatched them with the finesse of a fine warrior.

Surveying the carnage, Thorin’s stomach curdled at the sight before him.  The father was grotesquely butchered, suffering many blows inflicted for sport rather than honourable battle wounds.   There were three children, also felled by many sword slashes and club blows – two beaten almost beyond recognition - and a third …  Oh Mahal, the third had bite marks on its rent body.  The filth had eaten the child in front of its father and siblings!   Thorin’s stomach rejected his meagre breakfast and he sat with head in hands, shaking with rage and sorrow at the horror before him.

He was in the midst of digging shallow graves for the family when he heard a small noise in the nearby bushes.  It's sound was like a bird so he gave it no mind, returning to his morbid duties.   The noise continued, increasing in volume and duration.   Putting down the shovel and gripping his axe, he carefully scouted in the direction of the sounds.    What he found soured his blood, whipping all of his rage back to boiling – and added fear to the acidic mixture.   There was a young human child – no, a baby – sitting next to what must have been its mother, drenched in her lifeblood and with hoarse little cries, patted the mother’s face.   

The babe looked up to him and ceased crying, lifting up its little arms and babbled “up-up-up-up”.   When he responded with nothing more than a disdainful stare, the child repeated “up up up up” but louder.  Thorin’s felt his stomach clench when he understood that the baby wanted to be picked up.  By him.

“I swear on all the mithril in Middle Earth, I will not be your nanny!”  He growled at the child.   Surely there was some solution to this mess which did not involve him carrying a bloodied human child.   He retrieved a piece of cheese from his pack and gave it to the child, buying time while he considered the few options available.  The nearest human homestead was two hours walk away – he couldn’t leave a child alone for the four hour round trip, assuming that the humans were at home and would help.   He was only a little over an hour away from a Dwarvish camp and while they would not offer long term resolution, they would be able to provide sufficient care for the little one while a better answer could be found.

It looked like he would have to pick the child up after all.  He soothed his pride by reminding  himself he would carry the child to safety on his honour as a Dwarf but he would not hold it as if he were a nanny at the mercy of a demanding human spawn.

He raised his palm towards the baby and said, in a very gruff voice, “Stay!”  for which he received a surprised “Oh,” and a smile.

Thorin returned to his work, speeding up his efforts to provide a spartan burial for the child’s family.    He completed most of the gruesome task, leaving the final grave for the mother.  He was uncertain how to remove and bury the mother’s body with the child in attendance – certainly it was not wise to cover the female with its babe watching.   He determined to take the child to the stream, wash the blood off and change its clothes, if he could find some, and then tie it to the wagon, out of sight of the graves.

It seemed a workable plan and all was proceeding well until Thorin picked it up after removing its bloodied clothes and rinsed it in the stream.   The child was a non-stop noise and when he held it – her, if human anatomy was similar to Dwarves, and he had no reason to believe it wasn’t.  She played with the clasp beads in his braids, chattering and laughing when she made them jingle.

Thorin scowled deeply, trying to pull the chubby little hands out of his hair.   She delighted in this new game of ‘grab the pretty braid bobbles’.   The sterner he said no, the harder she laughed.   Clearly the humans had been poor disciplinarians for he was certain no Dwarvish child would ever disobey an adult as this child did.   He grimaced as he recalled that his young sister- sons were every bit as full of mischief and misbehaviour as the little imp in his arms.  With a sigh he surrendered a braid to her, suspecting she would have eventually won that skirmish anyway.

He discovered bedding and supplies which looked suitable for a young human and assumed they were for the girl.   The little one was happy to sit and play with her cup once Thorin gave her one of his braid beads.  He created a suitable nest and found strapping to tie her to the wagon's wheel, freeing him to complete his funereal tasks.  He shook his head at the wee creature, grumpily wondering how he could defeat fourteen Orcs single handedly but was bested by that tiny human.

With a bracing deep breath he returned to the child’s mother and his thoughts coloured darker than the deepest night.   She had several unnecessary stomach wounds and had undoubtedly died an excruciatingly painful death trying to protect her daughter.   Orc filth could not be wiped from Middle Earth soon enough.   With curses against the Makers for creating the vile Orcish species, he lifted the woman with as much care and respect as he could offer her.   He was readying to lay her into her final resting place when he heard a ragged sucking breath and her hand fluttered against him.  Thorin was stunned, nearly dropping her and temporarily alarmed that human ghosts or evil spirits had come to haunt him.  Her eyes were wide as she laboured to speak.  He guessed her to be in shock because she did not show pain but only frustration at her difficulty in communicating a vital message.

He bent his ear close to her lips to listen.  She tugged the braid which fell onto her open palm – the same braid the wee one played with moments before; the same one from which Thorin removed the bead for her daughter.

“Thera.  Save Thera.”   She continued to mouth the words without benefit of voice, her eyes pleading with him until they closed and she heaved her last life’s breath.   Thorin stalled, uncertain on what to do next for he had assumed she was dead before, ready to bury her when she was in fact alive. 

He was mortified by possibility of repeating the same mistake so he gently laid the woman down and proceeded to check for signs of living.  He opened her eyelid and saw only stillness – no flickers or movement in her sightless orbs.   He placed his fingers on her neck and her chest, checking for the flutters of a beating heart and could feel nothing.  Likewise there was no breath on his wetted finger as he held it under her nose. 

The only thing he knew to do was to wait – if she had passed on to the human’s next world, her body would begin its own journey back to the dust, it would grow cold and her eyes would cloud, having lost their need to see.   Confident in this knowledge, he would take care of other things before covering her body with the soil.

Thorin performed a thorough search of the humans’ belongings, inventorying that which had not been defiled or destroyed by the Orcs.  He concluded they had been travelling from a great distance with intent to resettle for their cart contained most every sort of homesteading necessity.  

He added another crime to the long list of those the Orcs committed when he saw that they had killed the second pony.  His distaste for the waste of innocent animals was added to his disappointment that there was no way one pony could pull the full cart.  With a disdainful heavy breath Thorin re-sorted the goods, deciding what to take and what to leave behind.  He would hide what he could not take with him under the bushes, but held little hope that they would be there when either he, or whoever took the child, returned.

He was able to sufficiently lighten the load of the cart, packing only that which he considered useful in the care of a young human child.   By the time he was finished sorting, reloading the cart and stowing the abandoned items, he was ready to check on the woman.   He touched her arm and felt it was noticeably cool to the touch but prevaricated, as he was unsure of normal human temperature, he could not count it as evidence of life or passing.   He opened her eyelid again and was given the final confirmation he required, what was previously blue and clear had become cloudy and glazed.   The human had passed from this Middle Earth and was on her next journey, _may Aul guide her gently_.

Thorin respectfully crossed her hands over her chest and moved to lift her apron over her face in an illogical wish to protect it from the dirt.   With one final look he noticed she was wearing a necklace and paused to remove it.   He wound it up and tucked it into a pocket inside his coat, committing to give it to the person who raised little Thera (he assumed that was her name) for safekeeping until the girl was old enough to receive it herself.  She would probably like to have something of her mother’s – or at least he felt he would if he was her.

Once finished his sad task, he strode back to the stream to refill his water skins and clean himself.   He returned to Thera, finding her playing contentedly on the nest of blankets he had made for her.  Her eyes lit up and she began her litany of “up up up up”, smiling and lifting her arms to him.   A tiny smile threatened the corners of his mouth at her guileless enthusiasm but he successfully contained the unwelcome offending flicker.

Thorin tidied up her ‘nest’, making a safe and comfortable spot for her on the wagon.  As the wagon began to move, she did not want to sit there, out of reach of Thorin, and was cooperative only for a short time. 

“Up up up up.”  She called to Thorin.

“No.  You sit there.”  He scowled back at her.

They repeated the exact phrases to each other with increasing frustration and volume several times before Thera broke out in a ferocious wail.

Thorin thought they were safe from Orcs but with her caterwauling, they might attract the filthy scum and he’d never hear a predator until it was already on top of him.  That was an exceedingly undesirable and unwise way in which to travel.

“To the depths of Mordor, child!”  He grumbled as he lifted her up, holding her to him with one hand and the pony’s reins in the other.  She immediately snuggled in with contented babbling sounds, stroking his beard with one hand and sucking a thumb on the other.  She laid her head down on his shoulder and hummed, falling asleep but a few minutes later.

 _Blasted child._   It was a good thing she was light as a feather otherwise he would have not indulged her ‘up up up up’ whims.  He was a warrior!  He had to be ready to battle foes without notice, he most certainly could not have his fighting arm restrained by a sulky child – _it was dangerous, by Mahal!_

Despite the complete impropriety of a human touching his beard, and the unappealing thought of her breathing on him, his disgust at her presence gradually diminished.  She very vaguely reminded him of Fili and Kili when they were babes, warm, cuddly and excessively inconvenient with their demands.   He forgot to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up ever so slightly and had a shiver of revulsion when he realized he almost smiled because of her - again.

His progress was significantly slower with a child, a pony and a cart.  A trip that would have taken an hour of brisk walking and should have taken less than two hours with a cart, was coming up on three.  He was tired, hungry and glad to soon be done with the creature who was only quiet when it was asleep. 

He was absolutely certain that if he ever heard the phrase “whassat?”  again, it would be too soon.  The confounded child had him name every single item within eyesight.  He caught himself telling her the names of things in Khuzdul and worked very hard, with a slight edge of panic, to ensure she did not remember any of those words at all.   _No Dwarvish word should ever pass a human's lips!_

It was after dark when they reached the Dwarven camp.   It was a pathetic tent village – not appropriate for a race of mountain dwellers at all.  But it kept them dry and together which was better than that which many of his people had in those first years after Erebor and then again after Azanulbizar. 

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.”  He bowed to the Dwarves in greeting and accepted their ‘service’ cheerfully offered in return.

“What hear you of the Iron Hills, Thorin Oakenshield?”

“Is there work for miners, tinkers, or smiths?”

“Can you tell us stories of the First Age tonight?  When Durin the Deathless called our people to Khazad-dûm?”

The gregarious company heartily welcomed him and peppered him with questions as they offered to share their thin soup.   Perhaps it was because of the dark or maybe because it would never have crossed their minds, but they did not notice the little child plastered onto Thorin’s side.  That is until she said, in a crystal clear voice, “Whassat?”  and pointed at the funny hat of one of the Dwarves.

A cloak of uneasy silence fell over the group.  No one knew what to say or who should speak first.  It was completely without precedent for a Prince to be sporting a human child on his chest.    They looked to one another with the distinct message of “I’m not asking, you ask!” passing from one to the next.

Thorin sighed, speaking clearly and succinctly to them, “I found her family butchered by Orcs south of the old bridge in Tharbad.  They died of their wounds leaving only this little one to survive.  She will be left her here with you whilst I travel to find humans to fetch her.”

Grumbles, shock, disagreement and thinly veiled refusals murmured throughout the group.   They would not wish to outright defy Thorin for he was their Prince?  King?  Whatever his title, they would respect him – to a point.

There were no Dwarrow-dams in their camp, a fact which concerned Thorin for Dwarves were not known for their skill with babies – they dealt adequately well with youngsters old enough to speak and follow commands, but were not so good with infants or toddlers.

The widower Faldur came forth to see the child.  He had lost his wife and two children when Smaug struck Erebor and missed them beyond the passing of time.   Faldur was the only Dwarf with any knowledge of children and he couldn’t stand the thought of a little one alone without loving care.   He held out his arms to Thera but she vigourously shook her head, grasping onto Thorin tightly, her chubby little fingers clutching his beard.

Faldur made soft, encouraging sounds to Thera and held out his arms to her once more but she whimpered and hid her face in Thorin’s neck.  When he tried to pick her up, she screamed in terror and clutched Thorin’s beard with both hands, her eyes wild.

“It is not to be accomplished this night.  Thorin, the child must remain in your service for now.  We will try again tomorrow.” Faldur said wistfully.    He longed to hold a child, even a human one, in his arms once again.  He remembered the stages his own two went through when they would latch on to one parent and have no part of any other Dwarf in Middle Earth.  They were trying times but they eventually outgrew it.  Sometimes it took days, sometimes months and he hoped for Thorin’s sake that the human would relent far sooner.  Faldur didn't think he would mind at all if the little one chose him as her favourite.

The Dwarves helped Thorin create a tent for himself and Thera using the cart as a roof.   Thorin was concerned little Thera might wander off in the middle of the night so he ensured their shelter was as secure as possible.   He need not have worried for she held onto some part of him at all times, refusing to let go even when he changed her nappy – something he never thought he’d be reduced to do, but it was clear he had no choice.

The next day Thera continued her attachment, sticking to him like the strongest tar, but as long as he didn’t push her away, she was happy to be held in his arm and play with his braids.  The Dwarves snickered and avoided Thorin’s eyes when they watched her do this unmentionable thing but no one teased him.  Much of the time he no longer realized she was touching his beard, he’d given up trying to stop her and with it, he stopped noticing.

While Thorin doled out the meagre supplies he brought with him and relayed letters and information from other camps, Thera happily chattered and babbled with whomever was closest.   Faldur had taken it as a personal challenge to earn her trust, spending several hours answering the endless “Whassat?” questions and trying to teach her to say his name and Thorin’s.   By lunch time she was happily saying “Tornan” and “Todder” and Faldur could have sworn he saw Thorin smirk when she did so, even though he denied it with a fearsome scowl.

No matter how friendly or how many bribes of sweet clover she was offered, she would not leave Thorin’s side.   She continued to play with his braids and beads, the latter to Thorin’s increasing annoyance.  The little imp lost his bead from the previous day and he was loathe to lose another. 

Faldur constructed a sling for Thorin to secure Thera in, much like the one his own wife had used with their children.  It allowed Thorin to carry wee Thera but have use of both arms and Thera loved it, it kept her close and cuddled into her Tornan.

Thorin had planned to return to his work in the human village the following day but it was apparent Thera would not willingly stay in the camp.  Thorin's frustration at the thought of travelling with her marginally ebbed, and so he did not insist that she stay against her will, he would take her with him back to the village of Men, which was undoubtedly best for her in any event.   For his kindness he was ‘rewarded’ with a surprise from wee Thera.

Upon changing her evening diaper he spotted something shiny in the mess.  _By the gates of Mt. Doom_ , there was his braid bead!  She had swallowed and passed the damnable thing.   If it hadn’t been one of the few items he still had from Erebor, he would never have considered salvaging it, but as it was, he did – gagging and eyes watering during the reclamation and sanitization.   Thera thought his odd sounds to be hilarious and clapped gleefully with every choke and gag, for which she earned The Death Stare.  Thera being Thera and Thorin being Thorin, his Death Stare only served to make her giggle more.

The following day Thorin and Thera said their goodbyes to the camp.   Thorin had letters to take back with him and a few small pieces of metalwork to sell on consignment, but other than that, packing up was a simple and quick affair.  Thera gave Faldur a one armed hug, maintaining a vise like grip on Thorin’s beard with her other hand.    Faldur chuckled knowing Thorin was going to have his hands full with that little one and silently cheered because it was obvious the wee child was working something wonderful in their heavily burdened leader.   Faldur hadn’t seen Thorin smile in all of their time in exile – until Thera called him Tornan.

The trip back to the village of humans was delightfully boring.   Uneventful was blessed travel because excitement was most always of the dangerous variety.  

 

Thorin had only a small room off the forge in which he worked and was concerned how to accommodate Thera while he searched for a suitable family to adopt her.  He needn't have worried, she tugged her 'nest' blankets beside his cot and flopped onto the as if she'd been sleeping there her whole life.

Thorin made the rounds in the village, seeking out families who might be willing to take in this sweet little girl.   Her full head of dark curls, bright blue eyes, dimpled chubby cheeks and sweet smile made for a delightful first impression.  But her violent refusal to be held by anyone other than Thorin cancelled that good impression.  No one wanted the burden of an unhappy, recalcitrant child – especially one who came from they knew not where or whom.

Thorin's efforts had been wholly unsuccessful and so he changed tactics, intending to find the babe's kith or kin.  He suspected that the child’s family travelled from Bree or Weathertop and sent word to those areas inquiring about a family of six – three boys, one baby girl named Thera.    Thorin was resigned to the knowledge that Thera would probably be with him for weeks instead of days.  

Thera was a happy, easy child – other than she wouldn’t let Thorin out of her sight.   She quickly potty trained once he ‘explained’ it.  He was pleased Dis, and every other Dwarf in Middle Earth, was nowhere near to watch that escapade.   Thera laughed and laughed as he mimed using the potty.  He didn’t think she would ever understand but she surprised him and caught on to it in short order.   She was so keen to gain one of his tiny, barely visible smiles, she would have done most anything he asked of her – as long as he didn’t ask her to leave his sight.

From time to time Thera would fuss enough to send Thorin into full battle mode.  Whatever was bothering her was the enemy and he was ready to defeat that enemy come hell or high water.   His greatest weapon was neither axe nor sword, but his voice.   All of the problems in Thera’s world would dissolve when Thorin sang to her.  His deep melodious voice soothed her better than any potion or trinket.   There were songs to cheer her up, songs to calm her down, songs to put her to sleep and songs just for the pleasure of singing.  

As he braided her hair he’d sing The Misty Mountain song and she’d hum along with him, holding little stone beads in her hand to pass to him when he needed them.   She loved having her hair brushed and braided; Tornan smiled when he did it and it felt nice and it made her look like Tornan and she got to play with bweeds he'd made for her and, and, and!  When he picked her up she’d pull one of her braids, then one of his and then pat him on the cheek and say “Tornan an Terwa bweeds”.

Weeks went by and they settled into a comfortable routine.   Thera drew curiosity and conversation wherever they went, opening Thorin up to socialize and share company with the men of the area.   As they got to know him, they began to trust him, relieved he was not the cantankerous, untrustworthy cuss he appeared to be when he first arrived in their village.   More trust meant more commissions which meant more wages which meant more help for his people … and more supplies for little Thera who was growing like a weed and always needing something.   While Thorin would never spend on himself, he was not miserly with Thera.  She was not spoiled, but she certainly had better food and warmer clothes than Thorin provided for himself.

The greatest fear Thorin faced since leaving Moria came sneaking into their lives in the middle of the night.   He didn’t hear it at first, so quiet and low it didn’t penetrate his light sleep.   When he did hear, he was confused and doubtful.   Thera’s moans became loud enough and frequent enough to make themselves known to him, causing him distinct panic.   She was burning up with fever and he had no knowledge of what to do for her.   He gave her water to sip and wiped her  burning skin with a cool cloth but it did not help.   He did not have any healing herbs, nor did he know how to use them any even if he had.   Torn between leaving her alone and finding help, he chose the latter with fear gripping his heart.

Thorin ran to the home of a woman he had heard helped with births, wounds and healing.  He banged at her door in a panic and nearly frightened the poor woman to death with his incomprehensible raving.  She later told him that he was speaking in a foreign tongue and she couldn’t understand anything other than he was angry, suspecting he was more than a little afraid.   Had she not recognized him as that peculiar Dwarf with the adorable little girl, she would have screamed for help.   She caught a few words of the Common Tongue and one of them was ‘fever’.  She grabbed a case, filling it with herbs, salves, poultices and tinctures from her shelves and followed Thorin to the forge.

Thera was in a badly weakened state.  Her fever was far too hot and the Healer did not know if she would be able to help the child.   She bade Thorin continue to cool her with damp cloths and to cover her should she start shivering.  She used several herbs and poultices trying to draw the fever from the girl, without any quick effect.  For two days Thorin didn’t leave her side, dribbling medicines onto her tongue and bathing her with cool lavender water.  

He had seen so much death and suffering his soul was weighed down with it, but his life's purpose left him unable to spend his time isolated in a cocoon of grief.  He had the responsibility of an entire people and that did not afford him the luxury of normal emotions.  Should little Thera die, he would go on, he would not be destroyed by it.  But he did not want her to die, he did not want to wake unable hear her babbling stories while she played with a braid or drew him a picture or hummed a Dwarvish song … he wanted her to grow  hale and hearty, able to share her light with others … able to share her light with his lonely heart for a while longer yet.

Thera gave him a purpose which he could fulfil.  In the many things he was burdened to do as Heir of Durin, most seemed well nigh impossible.   What she needed, he could easily provide and that gave him a pride more precious than he could have imagined.   With Thera he was not failing Durin's folk, not denied a heritage, not avoiding a dragon.  With Thera he simply had to be keep her safe and her open, happy trust told him he did it well.  In her bright blue eyes he was a resounding success.

Thorin knew she’d have to go back to living fully in the world of Men one day – a proper human girl would not want to stay forever with a bunch of earthen Dwarves.  But until that day, and he hoped it was as far in the future as possible, he wanted to be her Tornan – her hero protector.  Humans had such short lives, he wouldn’t be her Dwarf Dad for decades but he would do the best he could for what time they did have.

Thorin fell asleep with his head slumped over onto his cot where she lay.  He woke to a tugging on his beard and odd little croaking sounds.   He looked up to see her weak smile and he thought he’d just been given the greatest gift of his life.

“Tornan I firsty.”   She tugged his braid and patted his cheek.

It is fair to say that no one would have believed it, should anyone tell them, that a tear rolled down the cheek of the Great Thorin Oakenshield as he tipped a cup of honeyed water to a little human girl’s mouth that day.  But it did and he was not ashamed of it.  He thanked Mahal every single day afterward for the gift of Thera.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were an odd, indivisible team.  Over the years their bond never weakened even as Thera became aware of the differences between Men and Dwarves.  In her early teen years she faced some anger and resentment over it, feeling that she’d been cursed somehow, wanting so badly to be a Dwarf like her Dad.  Thorin chose that time to give Thera her Mother’s necklace which he had saved for her.   He encouraged her to be proud of her heritage and of her race – just as he was taught to be proud of his own.

As they found a home for their people in the Erid Luin, Thera grew into a beautiful young woman.   She was smart, independent, strong and still as willful as the first day Thorin met her.  Human men didn’t know what to make of her and she wasn’t sure if that should bother her or not.   She had a terrible, magnificent crush on Thorin’s friend Dwalin, certain that he was her one true love.   It embarrassed Dwalin horribly when she made moon eyes at him which made Thorin laugh.   He didn’t know what to think about his daughter being infatuated with his best friend.   On one hand, he knew no more honourable Dwarf than Dwalin – he was true and good.   On the other, it gave him a queasy stomach to even link their names together as mates – she was his daughter for Mahal’s sake!

As it happened, Thorin had no more say in the matter than did Dwalin.   On Thera’s 25th birthday she and Dwalin were wed.  All of Durin’s folk in The Blue Mountains celebrated for an entire week and no one paid much mind that such a union would never have occurred a hundred years before.   Time in exile had put the hidden race of Dwarves in direct daily contact with the other races of the world, breaking down old prejudices and sometimes building up new ones.  When it came to Thorin’s daughter, she was as Dwarvish as any young Dwarrow-dam could be … her beard simply hadn’t grown in, people would say with a wink.  

Thera and Dwalin were happily married for 62 years, their time together always feisty, never boring.   Thorin chuckled as his stalwart friend was usually reduced to “yes ma’am” by Thera.  He understood that well, having been under her thumb for all of his time with her too.

In her final days Thera told Thorin her only regret was that she and Dwalin had not been able to have children.   She’d had several miscarriages and considered it the only real tragedy of her life.  She would have loved for Dwalin to have children during his many years after her passing and she would dearly have loved to know that there was another generation of Thera’s to keep Thorin in line too – he needed a firm hand, she laughed.

Both Dwalin and Thorin were by her side as she peacefully slipped away.  They knew not to whom her final words were given, but they suspected they were to both of them at once.   She softly said “love you forever” and tugged on each of their braids as she went to sleep, not to wake again.  

When she’d gone, Dwalin held and kissed her hand, picking up a small thing which had fallen from her fingers.

A sob escaped from Thorin’s heart, it was the bead he had given her to play with the day she found him.


End file.
